by J. S. Morin
“You got a thing for this Monroe girl, huh?” Jordan asked. “Can’t blame you. She’s a little old for my taste, but a body-mod fanatic’s gotta be good for a few extra years. Am I right? Of course, with hair like yours, you must have a thing for—”
“Listen, kid—Jordan—you’re going to be out in live ships against me pretty soon,” Carl said. “I think, right this minute, I’m about the last person in-system that you want to be jerking around.” That shut the kid up. He stayed quiet as July’s race started.
She was up against someone named Grixlit Kthaa who had finished in 28th place. “What the hell kind of name is Grick-slit Kithah?” Carl asked, stumbling over the odd assortment of letters. “That’s not that reptilian, is it?”
“That’s the one,” Gurdi replied. “Gotta give the poor guy credit, making it this far in a primate-heavy field. He’ll have a nice story to tell his kids—or spawn, or whatever they call their young.”
As the first lap developed, July took up position as the front-runner. Kthaa was hanging in, following from above and behind. He was careful to stay out of the simulated ion wash of July’s engines. Generally ion wash was harmless, but that wasn’t when you were trying to eke out every joule of energy from a ship’s engines. Fighting a headwind wasn’t efficient.
The lap continued, with July padding a growing lead. Carl found the remote for the holo-projector and turned up the volume.
“And into turn 6, Monroe seems to be settling in. A conservative line through that one. Looks like she’s got her lead and plans to sit on it.”
“Smart girl,” Gurdi said. “She’s got this one tied up with a bow. All she’s got to do is play safe.”
Carl was inclined to agree. It wasn’t his style, but his style wasn’t exactly grounded in sound racing theory and years of on-track experience. Even taking her knee off the sitharn’s throat, Kthaa wasn’t gaining any distance on her. July held her lead through the end of lap one.
“As we come to the first turn of lap two, Monroe has a quarter kilometer lead on Kthaa. Her early gains have let her race a relaxed lap pace through the last half of lap one, and she’s continuing that strategy through lap two. But wait… Kthaa is taking a more aggressive angle into turn one. It looks like someone remembered that this is a simulator, and the worst he can do is lose.”
“Aw, shit,” Carl muttered. Kthaa had taken a screen-cap from Carl’s race and was using his technique to close the gap on July. The sitharn’s Squall flipped around backward and fired its main thrusters as brakes. It rocketed into the turn and hugged the apex, wobbling as if it might go sliding off into the asteroids at any second.
July took note of Kthaa’s desperation and stopped slacking her way through turns. Kthaa continued racing with disregard for the safety of his simulated vessel. He didn’t try Carl’s trick with reversing his main engines again, but he came through the turns with punishing speed and only the slimmest of margins to utter disaster. Despite rooting for July, Carl cringed as he watched Kthaa’s Squall come within meters of splattering across an asteroid.
But July still held the upper hand. She took the turns like a pro—solid lines, complete control. Kthaa’s antics were costing him nearly as much time in recovery as they were gaining him initially through higher speeds.
“Momentum’s a bitch,” Jordan remarked as Kthaa swung his Squall around and used the main engines to prevent him from going off the course.
“Those turns have got to hurt,” Gurdi said. “What sort of G-forces can a sitharn take?”
“Enough,” Carl replied. He had to remind himself that he was still rooting for July. Kthaa had balls, whether his species came by them naturally or not. Carl had never been one to take a loss without trying every trick and rules violation he could think of. Kthaa was showing that fighting spirit, too.
But fighting spirit only got a sentient so far. July was the better pilot, and Kthaa’s ever-more-desperate maneuvers were beginning to cost him distance instead of gaining it. He had to fight the inertia of his overshoots, over-steering to correct his course. It was putting a knife across the throat of his chances.
“With two turns to go, Monroe appears to have this one locked down. Kthaa is trailing by—MY GOD HE’S GONE INTO THE ASTEROIDS!”
It was a bit melodramatic for a simulator race. Carl had to give the announcer credit for getting so into the spirit of it being a real life-or-death event. Still, Kthaa deserved credit. Better to go out in style than drift through the last turns of a losing effort.
“Wait! He’s cutting the corner!”
“Holy shit. He is!” Carl said. He turned up the volume even further.
“Kthaa has managed to dodge through the asteroid barriers and come out ahead of Monroe. This is the first time in the history of Silde Slims that a racer has intentionally gone into the asteroids and come out alive! Kthaa has a commanding lead, and all Monroe can do is look on in disbelief.”
“She’s gonna be pissed,” Jordan said with a smug grin.
“You’re probably safer in here with us,” Gurdi said, patting Carl on the arm. “Let her cool down before you talk to her.”
Carl snorted. “Not my style.”
He slipped around the laaku racer and set his coffee down on the refreshment table. It was time to go find out what had just really happened.
# # #
It took asking two security guards and a race fan who was taking holovid recordings of the losers’ exit, but Carl managed to track down July before she left the facility. She was wearing dark glasses and a black jacket with the hood up, hiding her violet hair and eyes. She was walking at a pace where Carl had to jog to catch up with her. Carl hated jogging.
“Hey!” he shouted when there was a gap in the crowd between them. “Princess Racer, slow down!”
July whirled on him, but stopped. That was what he was after, so the gritted teeth that greeted him were only a minor drawback. “Don’t call me that!” she snapped at a whisper when Carl stopped beside her. He had called her that in an unthinking moment of passion, the more eloquent side of his mind having been shunted aside.
“All right,” Carl said, huffing for breath. “Take it easy. I just wanted to see if you were OK.”
“Can we not do this right here?” July asked with a sniff. A tear trickled from behind one darkened lens. “I just… let’s just get the hell out of this tube.” She wiped her face with a jacket sleeve.
“Sure thing,” Carl replied. “Come on. I’ll find us someplace quiet… -ish.”
There wasn’t much around for real privacy—a true premium commodity on Phabian—but Carl managed. A few tubes away, there was a dessert shop with a quiet booth against a wall. Booze was hard to come by on Phabian, given that the locals couldn’t handle it. A good stiff drink was just what July needed. But if being married to Tanny had taught him anything, it was that chocolate ice cream could work miracles.
Carl keyed a chocolate sundae into the table’s service requester before July gave it a glance. “It was just one race. You must have lost before.”
“Of course I’ve lost races,” July snapped. She took off her glasses and wiped at her reddened eyes. “But that was humiliation. I had that race won. Now all anyone’s ever going to talk about is how that sitharn heroically overcame impossible odds to beat me. I’m going to be the next fucking Goliath, and Kitha gets to be David.”
“Kthaa,” Carl said. He’d made a point of getting it right himself.
“Don’t you fucking start with me,” July warned. “I’m going to have to crawl home on borrowed terras now. I might never get a real racing gig again thanks to this bullshit.”
A laaku server brought her chocolate sundae, and July dug in without so much as a thanks. Carl ignored the second spoon the server had left, unsure what was really in that ice cream. He watched through the tall glass as atmospheric ships flitted around, delivering people and goods from one place to another across the planet. It gleamed and sparkled. Some of it even glowed. But it couldn’t hi
de the dark, ugly side of life planetside, the part that even ice cream and a good cry couldn’t make right.
“And I had him,” July said. “There’s no way that cutting through the asteroids should be legal. Someone just programmed a shitty sim and didn’t include a disqualification for going out of bounds. I totally had him.” She took another mouthful of ice cream, shaking her head.
“Feel better?”
“Wha?” July asked with her mouth full.
“You can’t go saying that out in public. You know that, right?” Carl asked. “You go spouting off, right or wrong, and you’re the sore loser. Play this right, maybe you can land on your feet.”
“How’s that?” July asked. “I’ve got about six terras left in my account. If you’re not picking up the tab here, we just stole this sundae. I’m broke. I’ve got no job. I don’t have passage off Phabian. And now I blew my shot at getting noticed by a major racing league.”
“They noticed.”
“Oh fuck that! You know what I mean.”
“I do, but you don’t. You got your name out there. Keep your name in the spotlight during this contest, and you’ll get backers who think you got robbed. Someone’ll give you a shot.”
“How do I do that?” July asked between bites. “Once the highlight plays itself out and the live racing starts, I’m a footnote.”
“You’re the one who keeps reminding me that this contest is more than just racing,” Carl said. “How’d you like to come to the contestants’ banquet tonight? It’ll be live on UltraVelo.”
“It’s invite only,” July said. “How am I supposed to…” she trailed off, and a thoughtful frown knit her brow.
Carl waggled his eyebrows. “Stick with me through this thing, and I’ll make sure you stay front and center.”
# # #
Roddy rubbed at his eyes as the cargo ramp lowered. The whirring hum of the hydraulics threatened to lull him back to sleep. As the ramp touched down, a lone figure stood waiting at the bottom. She wore billowing pants and a midriff-baring top with an unzipped jacket thrown over it. The dark glasses might have hid her eyes, but the violet hair and the fact that Roddy had seen her on the holo-feed made it obvious that it was July Monroe. She held up one hand in a wave of greeting while the other held an overnight duffel.
“You must be Roddy,” she called up.
“You must be kidding me,” Roddy replied. “What the hell are you doing here? Where’s Carl.”
“Contestants’ barracks,” July replied. “They’re shipping out to the racecourse in the morning—some rotten little orbital station. He said I could crash here.” She took a step onto the ramp, but Roddy moved to block her path.
“This ain’t a hotel,” Roddy said.
“No shit,” July replied. “Hotels cost money, and I’m broke. Is this Carl’s ship or yours?”
“Depends who you ask.”
The door to the common room opened above. “You must be July,” Esper asked, stifling a yawn.
“Yeah, can you tell your doorman to let me in?” July shouted up.
“Hey, sister, I happen to be—” Roddy said.
“It’s OK, Roddy. Carl sent a comm,” Esper said. “She’s going to use his quarters while he’s competing.”
“If this ain’t the backwardest shit ever,” Roddy muttered. What good was getting a girl back to your quarters without being there? “Fine. But don’t touch anything.”
July stepped around him. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be out the second I crash. It’s the middle of the damn night.”
Roddy followed her with his eyes, then glanced up to Esper. He wondered how long it would be before Tanny pointed out the resemblance. July wasn’t so processed looking, but they were probably about the same age and build—minus a bit of cosmetic surgery. He shook his head. What was it humans saw in swollen glands?
Roddy hit the controls, and the cargo ramp pulled up. “I catch you in the engine room, the cockpit, or with any access panels pulled open, I’ll shoot you.”
“He really won’t,” Esper whispered as July approached. She must have thought laaku were deaf or something.
“Don’t push me,” he shouted up. But she was right. This was Phabian, and if there was a downside to being on the safest planet in ARGO space, it was that people who pissed you off were safe, too.
# # #
When July emerged from the shower, she was barefoot but otherwise fully dressed, with a towel slung over one shoulder. Her violet hair was plastered to her head, and her outfit clung to her in places. As she crossed the common room, she left wet footprints.
Roddy got a good look at her for the first time in person and wide awake. The false eye color was weird, but nothing outlandish. Any doctor on Phabian could make the swap in half an hour. Matching hair pigmentation wasn’t even technically a medical procedure; any salon could perform a follicle programming. Without closer inspection—past the bounds of his idle curiosity—he was going to call her a poser as far as body-mod fanatics went.
“How did you manage that?” Esper asked. “I run through here in a towel to go change in my quarters.”
“Pack everything up tight, stuff it above the nozzle, and get it all to stay put,” July said. “I’ve been on more ships this size than I can count. Nobody gets a private shower, and most of them aren’t the sort of ride where you want to be walking around half naked or covered up in a towel, if you know what I mean.”
July slid into a seat at the kitchen table and took a plate and some scrambled eggs. Anyone would have thought she had been a member of the crew for years, or that she had paid a fare, or that the guy she was sleeping with was around to vouch for her.
“It’s a shame about your race,” Mort said, sipping his coffee. “I’m sure you’ll find a nice career to fall back on. Would have been nice for someone to take Carl down a peg or three though. Would have thought leaving his hair would do it, but that boy’s up more pegs than I can count.”
“So you did his hair?” July asked. “I can’t get a straight answer out of him.”
“The waste reclaim can’t process as much shit as Carl’s yap,” Roddy said. “It was an azrin swordsman who did it. Teaches tourists for cash. Easy money. I sent Carl there to get him off the ship for a couple days, and he pissed the sword master off until he gave Carl the blue fur curse.”
“So that story’s not a load?” July asked.
“No, it’s hilarious,” Roddy replied. He grinned, trying not to bust out laughing just remembering the look on Carl’s face.
“How much of the other stuff is—”
“Can we cut to what the hell you’re doing here?” Tanny asked. She had glared blaster bolts at July from the time she came out of the shower. Her own meal of waffles and bacon sat untouched in front of her.
July looked around the table, making eye contact with everyone but Mriy—not that most people made a habit of staring down azrins. She swallowed a mouthful of eggs. “A guy came, after the shindig at Silde Slims. After the cameras were packed up. After the contestants started slinking off to bed. Met me and Carl in a side corridor—tube, or whatever they’re called around here. He didn’t say who he was, but Carl seemed to know.”
“What’d he look like?” Tanny asked. Roddy hated the look on her. There were times when he had to wonder just how much those drugs in her system had her fucked up. Times like this, when there was murder just behind those eyes.
“Dark skin. Dark hair. Earth accent,” July replied. “Real upper-caste feel. Anyway, he says he’s sorry I lost my race. Real shame. Said he hopes Carl doesn’t lose under weird circumstances, because that’d be a shame, too.”
“No way,” Roddy said, shaking his head. “No fucking way those brain-parasites rigged the race. Not buying it.”
“You’ve seen them imprint memories into a cloned body,” Esper said. “Why’s it so hard to believe?”
“Too convenient,” Roddy replied. “You’re still new at this, but taking credit for something you didn’t do is a clas
sic bluff. We can clog up our intakes trying to puzzle out how they did it, but never get all the pipes to fit. Why? Because they didn’t. They can’t. Harmony Bay’s full of shit.”
“Wait. Harmony Bay? As in the medical mega-corp?” July asked. “The ‘We Bring Health to a Sick Galaxy’ Harmony Bay?”
“More like ‘We Hide Dark Science Under a Comforting Blanket of Sunshine and Puppies,’” Mort replied.
“Should we be talking about all this in front of…” Esper said, jerking her head toward July. As if the purple-haired racer was blind. Esper thought like one of those kiddie puppet shows where talking behind your hand meant no one could hear you.
“She’s had Carl’s pants off,” Roddy said. “She must’ve heard six different versions of his life story by now.”
“He’s actually been pretty blank,” July replied. If she was bothered by Roddy’s crude supposition, she didn’t show it. Pretty much as good as admitting it. “I got the stuff you hear on the holo-feeds of the contest, plus a quick blow on who all you people are. But it’s smooth. I don’t need to know.” She held up her hands to ward off an eruption by Tanny.
It wasn’t often Tanny showed her possessive streak. She claimed she didn’t care who Carl screwed around with, but that only lasted until she found out the ‘who.’ July was standing on a precipice and didn’t realize how close she was to the edge.
“The captain picks rotten mates these days,” Mriy said. She was speaking her native Jiara dialect. Leaving out Carl’s name kept July in the dark. “I think she lies.”
“Hey, call him yourself and ask him,” July said.
Mriy shrunk in her seat and flattened back her ears.
Mort laughed. “Pea-brains. She’s wearing Carl’s translator charm.” Mort flicked a finger and a lock of wet, violet hair uncovered July’s left ear. “Everyone around Carl right now speaks English.”
July leaned away from Mort and brushed her hair back into place with her fingers. “I didn’t even know it was doing anything. I half figured that was bullshit. Who goes around wearing magic earrings? I mean, I would have at least expected to see her mouth moving wrong.”